A Certain Level of Respect and Understanding
by magoria
Summary: Draco visits Harry unexpectedly one afternoon and the two men have an awkward, but healing conversation that starts them on the path to a certain level of respect and understanding. PostDH.


He stood across the street, his hands jammed into the pockets of his jacket, debating if he could go through with his original plan. He watched as several Muggles hurried past the building he was currently staring at. They couldn't see the house, but he could. Regardless of the fact that several of the charms hiding the house from other wizards had been lifted since the Battle ended and Potter had moved in, he still would have been able to see the building. Technically, he was family, and all blood relatives were exempt from the magic that hid the building from others. Even though his relatives had vacated the home years ago, the home was still theirs.

Taking a deep breath, he strode quickly across the unkempt grass in the middle of the square, deciding in an instant that he could no longer put this off. He marched up the front steps, and pressed his finger to the doorbell before he could change his mind.

He heard the clanging echoing throughout the house, and stood rigidly still, waiting for the door to swing open. After what felt like several minutes of excruciating silence, he decided no one was home, and turned to make his way down the steps. He froze in place, one foot hovering in midair, when a voice called out behind him.

"Draco?"

He turned slowly, regaining his balance, and looked up at the man who had opened the door. Potter looked the same as always: round glasses slightly askew on his face; black hair sticking up in all directions, barely hiding the lightning bolt scar; tall and lanky, one arm hanging at his side, his hand loosely gripping his wand; brilliant green eyes, clouded in obvious confusion as to why Draco would willingly seek him out. Potter stood there, one hand still holding the door opening, waiting for him to respond.

"I didn't think anyone was at home," Draco mumbled, his cheeks tinting pink against his pale skin. "I wasn't running away or anything." A streak of defiance marred the statement and his eyes narrowed.

Potter shrugged slightly, "Never said you were." He shivered as a particularly cold blast of wind shot through the square. "Come inside. It's freezing."

He walked back into the house, turning and holding the door open for Draco. Draco momentarily thought about leaving, before trudging back up the stairs and into the house. As the door swung shut behind him, he looked around the entry hall. He had heard descriptions of the Black Family home from his mother, who remembered visiting her Aunt Walburga and Uncle Orion as a child, but the home held none of the former grandeur.

What had previously been a dark, serpent-adorned hallway was now bright and cheery. Potter had obviously put quite a bit of effort into remodeling the building into what he considered a livable home. Portraits of Potter's parents and their friends waved down at the two men from the walls. However, the most prominent feature of the hallway was a giant hole in the wall, allowing a clean view into the adjoining dining room. Potter noticed Draco staring at it, and chuckled lightly, "Sirius' mum's portrait. Couldn't get it off the wall, so I just took out the whole wall. I was quite tired of hearing her scream at me every time I came home. Haven't had the chance to get it fixed yet."

Draco managed a tight smile in return, and followed Potter down the hall and down the stairs into the spacious kitchen. As soon as the two men entered, an impossibly old house-elf, wearing a fluffy white towel like a toga, scurried over to them.

"Tea for you and your guest, Master Harry?" croaked Kreacher. When Potter nodded his assent, Kreacher hurried to the stove to prepare the tea, while Draco and Potter took seats facing each other at the table.

Draco watched Kreacher for a moment and then turned to Potter, "_You've_ got a house-elf?"

"He sort of came with the place. Bursts into a fit whenever I try to mention giving him his freedom. He's happy serving me and Neville, so we let him."

Draco stiffened at the mention of the other man, "Longbottom lives here too?"

Potter nodded, turning to take his tea from Kreacher, "Thank you, Kreacher." The house-elf nodded and smiled, before scurrying around the table to hand a cup to Draco, who nodded his thanks. Kreacher left the room, and Draco could hear his footsteps fade into the upper floors of the house. Potter explained, "He moved in about six months ago. Needed to get out of his grandmother's place, but couldn't afford a flat of his own yet. This place has got plenty of room, so I suggested he move in." At the wary look on Draco's face, he continued, "He's not here right now. He's on assignment for the Ministry."

"Right."

A deathly silence fell on the room; the only noises were the crackling of the fire in the giant fireplace and the sounds of teacups hitting saucers as the two men wordlessly drank their tea. Potter seemed content to sit in the silence, but Draco found it horribly unsettling. The minutes stretched on, and Draco realized he had spent at least five minutes staring intently at a deep scratch in the surface of the table. Still, neither man spoke.

Finally, Potter sighed and leaned forward, his eyes intent on Draco, "Why did you come here, Draco?"

Draco's head snapped up, his eyes locking on Potter's. When he mumbled his reply, he knew it was unintelligible. At the questioning look on Potter's face, he moved his gaze to the ceiling and repeated it, louder and clearer this time, "I came to say thank you."

As he was completely focused on the handle of one of the pots hanging from the ceiling, Draco missed the look of shock cross Potter's features. A few moments of silence passed before he responded, "What are you talking about?"

Draco stopped his studious inspection of the copper pot, and looked at Potter again. He swallowed roughly, and chewed on his lower lip furiously. Just as he began to think he should just leave, the explanation burst from his lips, the words spilling over each other, "You saved my life. In the Room of Hidden Things. You didn't have to come back for me, but you did. And you didn't have to testify on my behalf. Or on that of my mother and father. But you did. You're the only reason we're not all losing our minds in Azkaban. Granted, Father is still losing his mind at home and Mother keeps saying she is going to leave. But we're not in jail. And it's only because you spoke for us. I'm not sure I would've done the same for you. At the trials… or in the Room of Hidden Things."

Just as abruptly as he started speaking, he stopped. With a jolt, he saw that there was no contempt or condescension on Potter's face. What he saw seemed remarkably like pity. He pushed backwards in his chair and stood up so quickly that it toppled to the floor. He had crossed the room and was in the doorway when Potter's voice stopped him.

"I saw what Riddle made you do. I saw that he used you to torture prisoners." Draco felt the blood draining from his face, but did not turn around. "Some of what you and your family did, I will never understand or forgive. But… but from a certain point, I know you were all just doing what you felt you had to do, to save your family. You were doing what you had to do to survive. I understand that. I really do."

Potter fell quiet again, and several minutes again passed in silence. All Draco could hear was his breathing, which was coming in deep, almost panicked gasps. He was suddenly aware that Potter had gotten up and crossed the room to stand behind him. Draco turned slowly, aware that his face was damp with tears. Potter reached out, placing a hand on Draco's shoulder.

"And I truly don't believe that you would have left me to die in the Fiendfyre."

Draco returned Potter's gaze with a jerky nod, before turning and rushing from the room and out of the house. He made it across the square, into the sparse cover of a few trees before twisting into the squeezing darkness of Apparition and disappearing from Grimmauld Place. When he reached his destination, the small but stately home he had purchased on the outskirts of London, he hurried inside and sank into an armchair by the fireplace in the study. As he drifted into a fitful sleep by the warmth of the fire, all he could think of was the understanding in Potter's eyes. Perhaps there was yet a chance for redemption.


End file.
